


the random frantic action

by eudaimon



Category: Amanda Palmer (Musician)
Genre: Apocalypse, F/F, Songfic (Sort of), sad songs are beautiful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 05:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were supposed to save the world.  All they got was front row seats to watch the fucking thing burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the random frantic action

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bliumchik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bliumchik/gifts).



> Just a little thing, from me to you. This is number two in a series I wrote for Yuletide Madness based on Amanda Palmer songs which, should you feel the urge, you can probably trace through the archive (the fics utterly stand on their own though, I think!)
> 
>  
> 
> [Ampersand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/37895) | [Astronaut](http://archiveofourown.org/works/38185) | [Another Year](http://archiveofourown.org/works/38252)
> 
>  
> 
> Lots of love, and Merry Christmas!

PILOT'S LOG, STARDATE 2984.21.3.  
POSITION UNKNOWN

So here it is.

It's sort of sobering to know that you're never going to make it home. Even if we knew where we were, which we don't...even if we could make it home, which we won't...even if we could survive re-entry, which is doubtful...we have to face the possibility that there would be no-one there to greet us. If we were the last ones out, we should have put the chairs on the proverbial tables, but we didn't and maybe it doesn't matter anyway, if the whole thing's going to burn down.

We still get packets from the satellites, intermittently .  
From this distance, all of the fires just make it look like a star.

I don't know if these messages are still getting back home, don't know if there's anyone there to retrieve them but, if anybody's hearing this, I need you to do me a favour. I need you to get this to someone. A long time ago, someone told me that people used to call it "Dear John" letters when they sent a letter to break up with someone. I already broke up with someone. This is...call it a letter sent after breaking up but before working out how to be done with someone. A dear Amanda letter.

Alright. Here it goes.

_Hey, Amanda. Hey, baby. I miss you, okay? Every night I pick a star and I say good night to it and I work out how long it would take for the light to get to you. Is that stupid? I don't know if it's stupid or not. I know that it's something. I knot that it stops it hurting quite so much._

I'm sorry I left you, Amanda. I'm sorry I didn't make you come with me. I'm sorry that I'm probably never going to touch you again, just...I dream about walking up behind you in the kitchen and touching the back of your arm while you're cooking. I know what we're doing out here. I do.

I just don't know why I came here without you.

That's it, really. That's all I've got. I dream about her, and I wish I could figure out a way to tell her that I'm sorry and that I wish I was coming home. Idly, I try to come up with a way to move stars into a message for her.

We're trying to live as normal a life as we can up here, but it's getting hard. We try not to keep an exact count of how long we've got left because, honestly, that feels pretty pointless. One day, one by one, we'll just stop waking up and then that'll be that.

If there's anybody out there, anybody listening to this, please, try and get this to Amanda. Do it for me. Call it a hero's dying wish.

Hero. Fucking hell. We were supposed to save the world. All we got was front row seats to watch the fucking thing burn and know that everything we ever loved was going to end up ash and we'd been floating up here forever, entombed in existence deep cold.

Shit. Fuck it.  
Signing off.

I hope that this works out.


End file.
